


Original Story Dump

by MehLordOfMeh



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Implied Relationships, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, To Be Continued
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 16:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16957431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MehLordOfMeh/pseuds/MehLordOfMeh
Summary: Look, I'm just gonna put my little 1-2 pager original stories here. Some may he porn, some may not be. Read if you like.





	1. Chapter 1

‘Darkness is a strange substance, like ice it has three states solid, liquid, and gas, but with a twist. Since it is a sort of mystical material, it doesn't fall under the laws of science, only able to change states by the user. In solid form, it's almost completely black aside from a very tiny shade of red at its center, like a candle in the dark, when a non-user touches it 'is like getting winded, if hit by a sharp point it will penetrate and quickly infect. As a liquid its thick; sticky, and has a pungent smell of ink, it can act like quicksand or just plain coat and suffocate people. As a gas its quite strange it is able to pass through solid material with ease, suffocate, and eat away like acid. As a whole Darkness is an odd thing.’ Kharon lamented to himself, sitting on his porch in an old wooden chair that mainly splintered.  
His hut sat like a timid mouse under the sprawling boughs of an ancient oak. The stony grey windowless walls were furry with moss that sparkled silvery with dew in the early morning winter light. Its roof was thickly thatched with coarse straw and a grey stone chimney stuck up like a solitary erect ear listening for the rustle of a coming predator.  
The river behind the home is a sleeping cobra. It lies across the land in smooth seductive curves, beautiful in the morning light, cool and innocuous. Yet it hides a myriad of dangers, its swift undertow being the least of your concerns. Just yards around the next bend is the largest waterfall down to the depths of Tartarus.  
Kharon appeared to be in his mid-forties. His hair was lazily ruffled, the ebony tips haphazardly pushed so they intertwined into beautiful chaos. His forehead was almost square, large and imposing, but not laughably so. A few lines were laid upon it, but they were dismissive as tricks of light. His eyebrows were impossibly straight, his eyes made of rich mahogany. Eyes that told of many secrets but held them locked in a strongbox so beautiful that you wouldn't dare to open in fear of what you might find within. If one ventured close enough, his mahogany eyes would hungrily envelop yours and pull your feet towards him. It was nothing he did precisely, it just looked as if he had a secret you would enjoy hearing about.  
He wears a simple white toga, made of the yarn from the mountain sheep. A cloak as black as pitch is draped over his shoulders, the hood pulled down.  
The early morning fog loomed as far as he could see, it was almost tangible, shrouding everything in a thick white veil, the light barely managing to penetrate the haze. The sounds of birdsong that should have been filling the air around him all seemed to have disappeared as if having been swallowed by a beast.  
The soil was so damp that the worms had surfaced to breathe and the crows fluttered over the grass with their inky wings, each of them eating at the sudden buffet.  
The sky became dark and low with ominous black clouds and the wind picked up, howling, crying, warning, baying like a wolf into the early morning. The first crack of lightning rent the air and within seconds the rolling boom of the thunder reverberated overhead.  
Walking on the edge of the storm, with shadows bellowing out from under him, was the God of death himself.  
He was pale as the full moon, thin as a serpent yet held an inhuman strength that carried him gracefully across the earth. Eyes of molten rock which stared unblinkingly, ever vigilant with shadows lurking under them. Deep shadows protruding under cheekbones, lips thin, chapped, deathly in their color. His hair is thick, black and poker straight, framing a gaunt face. There is nothing remotely feminine about him. As such his hair makes him more manly, more intense. Everywhere he goes eyes of both genders follow him in desire or envy or fear. His garb was that of any God, yet held the dark shades of night within their tint. He stopped his approach only when he got mir inches from Kharon.  
“Kharon.” His voice was deep, whenever he spoke, every head in the room would turn. He had that rich, silky tone. He speaks as if he controls the world, his experience seeping through. He would remind you of a stormy day. A nice one, in Kharon’s opinion.  
“My Lord.” Kharon’s voice was rasping, like an old man, even though his face was young. In reality, he was old. Very old, in fact. Nearly as old as his God. But thanks to the drink his God provided him every century he remains to look young.  
Then the God smiled. Perhaps 'smile' wasn't the right word for it -- the top row of teeth was showing, and there was a faint curve to the lips, but there was no crease below the eyes, no movement of the cheeks. On anyone else, it would be a grimace, at best. On this face, however, it was a sign of bliss.  
“Now, I remember telling you to call me by my name when we are alone.” The God lamely chastises, his head tilting ever so slightly to the right as if he was a cat who has seen something mildly interesting.  
Kharon let's low chuckle escape past his teeth, his head bowing slightly. “As you wish, My- Hades.” He catches himself, eyes flickering to Hades’ in trained wariness. The God simply looks mildly amused, his hands clasped behind his back and head tilted downwards slightly. For a God to look directly at someone was a high honor, one Kharon had earned but felt undeserving of. He loved his God, who took care of the dead and who did not play wicked games with the mortals. Kharon held his God to the highest, Higher than Zeus himself.  
“Careful with those thoughts, dear Kharon. Zeus would have me skin you if he knew.” Hades’ mouth barely moves, the wind blowing and carrying the whispered words to Kharon’s ears.  
“My apologies. May I ask what brings you to visit me?” Kharon inquires, his head dipping down in submission as Hades steps closer.  
The God reaches out his hand, all long fingers and blue corded with veins, and grasps the side of Kharons face. The hand was cold, lifeless in its embrace. Yet the warmth of Kharon warmed the palm, gave it some semblance of life. Hades leaned his face down, spin cracking as he did so. Noses brushing each other, eyes locked and Kharon's breath ghosting over Hades face.  
“Am I not allowed to simply visit a dear and loyal friend?” The question that he uttered was not intended for an answer. It simply required one to hear it and realize their own error quietly.


	2. winter serpant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a few centuries after the fall of the Old Gods, the fae are in control. They have replaced the Gods, yet one seeks out the power the old Gods held. A boy who just may be the last connection to them is sought out by a lone Unseelie, a dark fae who typically feeds off the mortals but has grown bored with them. He contacts him under the guise of choosing him as an apprentice.

The small cottage or hut would be a more accurate term, was perched on the plain near the woods, so old and poor that it was surprising how it was still standing. The hut hunkered low on the moor like a child in the elements trying to keep warm. The sides were the same gray slabs as the low walls in the dales and the roof was a darker slate. Inside there was a small hearth that barely seemed to warm the room and all the time came terrible drafts.  
The hut held the last remaining people of the town, held there by a pigheaded father and a weak-minded mother. A gust of dry wind whips through the maze of ancient huts where windows have long shattered in the weakness of their structures and rotting boards, some broken, others desperately trying to cover the empty eyes of every abandoned home. Doors hang on the few threads of their hinges and groan with pain at every sway. Weeds socialize across the fading streets of every road, gathering and laughing at the lone boy as he tries to weave around the catching claws of their leaves with every step. The boy is fragile, holding himself as if he is trying to take up less space than he already does, his clothes a few sizes too big and effectively making him look even skinnier than he actually is. There are eyes somewhere under the mop of long, ebony hair that is the same color of fish scales and glinting with barely a trace of emotion. His name is Yric, son of Olvir and Asa. Yric is a young man of 19 years old but looks far younger due to his sickly appearance. He shuffles towards the hut, before moving around the side and disappearing behind it. The forest that lay behind the hut was ancient. The trees thick and old, roots that were twisted. It might once have been filled with bird-song and animals that roamed. But now it was aged past its former glory. Its canopy was so dense that you could only see the occasional streak of sunlight that rarely touched the forest floor. Even its thick vines were slowly taking away the last remnants of life that was stolen away years ago. A singular tree grew far from the edge of the forest, its skeletal branches twisted and glittered like a coiled snake facing a lambent and curling flame as dusk approached. It's great Bole curved this way and that, sprouting new branches that birth a sickly green, it's massive roots danced in and out of the dirt in abstract waltz and minute as they gripped the hard ground with strapping and powerful limbs. Yric regarded the tree with slight interest, head tilting ever so slightly and causing his hair to fall to one side and reveal his narrow face. But as quickly as his face was revealed it was hidden again as he bowed his head and slumped forward, taking lazy strides to the tree before he descended down upon one large root. His fish scale eyes scanned the forest before him, and I, though hidden, burrow further into the tall grass. My scales whereof the same color of mud, with hues of silver and green. My eyes where a glowing red, giving away that I was no ordinary snake. My tongue flicks out, tasting the air before disappearing. My slender body slithers silently forward, scales glinting in the fading light. I stop as I near the boy, heading lifting from the ground and watching. He reclines against the tree, arms crossed over his chest. He is filthier up close, but that is expected of a poor farm boy. Others will scold me for my choice, but I sense greatness in him that if feed will grow into something worthy of what I am about to bestow. My mouth slightly opens, enough for a long, low rumbling hiss to leave it. I watch bemused as the Yric’s body stiffens in response, shoulders rising up to cover his neck and eyes widening. His eyes turn first to me, then slowly his head. I can see the dread creep over his face, I can sense it creeping down his spine like a careful spider leaving a trail of silk. A small chuckle floats through the air as if carried by the breeze and, oh his face if it was not amusing before it certainly was now. Eyes wider than before, breath ragged and harsh as he tries to keep himself stock still. His body trembles in response to my whispered chuckle, as if sensing the threat that I could become. The sound seems to have encapsulated him inside a cocoon of fear. However, I find myself growing bored of the once revelry that was human fear, my head tilting forward some. “Silence, I think, is best broken by introductions. I am Rakoth and I am a Fae, though you already knew that, yes? You were always such a clever boy, Yric.” The voice that flutters around us is coarse like a fragmented rock in a hessian sack, moving and grinding against each other.   
Yric sputtered, “How do you know my name?” His own voice was a petulant whine, laced with the still fresh fear that poured from his body. The that falls into the air is stall, plain as the boy in front of me. It was nothing more than a force of air leaving my lungs to stifle the pure announce that wanted to threaten Yric to shut up, to grow a backbone. Instead, my head tilted forward in a fake play of humor.  
“Why, I know many things, Yric.” The dullness of the conversation was draining, the doubt he’d ever amount to anything pressed down upon me. “Yric, I have something I want to show you.” I slither closer to the boy, he flinches.   
A hiss unvoluntary rumbles in my throat at seeing his fear. I was growing to hate that reaction, no matter who I approached it was the same with every mortal. I forcibly push it aside, stopping my approach and simply raising myself higher off the ground.   
“Yric, I am here because I can sense something in you.”   
That catches his attention. His achromatic eyes locked with mine, frowning slightly. He sits up slightly, hands resting in his lap and the scent of fear ebbs. Inwardly, I smirk. Outwardly, my head nods again.   
“You know I speak the truth, you are not like your parents, nor are you like any of the humans that lived in this village. You have something else within you, something no mortal can ever have. Through natural means.” The words rush from me like a gust of wind had swept into the valley.  
His eyes sparked with something, and I knew I had him. “But,” Ah there is always a But. Nothing comes without a price, he will learn this lesson well. “For me to help you, you cannot remain here. You must travel with me.”   
He looks away, back at the dreary hut and stares a moment. In the quiet I can hear the yelling, I can smell the anger. My own crimson eyes are drawn to the poor excuse of a home as well, the disgust of mortal life returning to me. Greedy, selfish worms who infect and feed upon the land as if it is theirs to destroy. A snare forms on my reptilian face, before I hear movement from Yric.   
When I look back at him he is standing in front of me, his body language was anxious yet he was trying to act confident. His face was that of a small child pretending to be defiant before bursting into tears. The nod he gives me jostles his hair and shakes his upper body.  
“Alright. Let’s go.” He says, his voice was still a horrid whine, however, there was an underline of something else.   
I move forward again, his body tenses but he does not flinch. Fast learner. Good. Moving up his legs and torso I rest wrapped around his upper arm. I look towards the woods, and without saying a word between us he starts walking forward.   
I hear his mother yell his name as we disappear into the thick layer of fog, he does not look over his shoulder as the sobs of his mother echo throughout the dead land.


End file.
